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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26948848">Daphne Greengrass and the Theory of Gryffindors</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramiorebokhara/pseuds/ramiorebokhara'>ramiorebokhara</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Original Character(s), Other</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:01:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,648</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26948848</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramiorebokhara/pseuds/ramiorebokhara</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Daphne Greengrass has a change of heart.</p><p>Set in the Half-Blood Prince</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Daphne Greengrass/Harry Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Daphne Greengrass and the Theory of Gryffindors</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On the whole, Daphne hadn’t thought there would be this much… waiting. On the Ministry to do something, sure, and for the Dark Lord Voldemort to start re-amassing his forces. But the Light Side? After the haunted looks she always saw, on the rare occasions her uncle, Snape, even Professor McGonagall, when they mentioned the First War, she’d thought Dumbledore’s sycophants would’ve been the first ones rushing around recruiting, that she’d have caught more wind about it.</p><p>But maybe with the Greengrass name, Slytherin legacy, they wouldn’t have been the first ones approached. She couldn’t blame them. </p><p>She believes Harry Potter, of course. What grounds would he have to lie? He could have as much fame as he wanted, even without pretending the Dark Lord Voldemort was back. And the way Draco’s letters have gotten stilted, overly formal, like he always did with strangers, like he did when he was trying to be strangers-- he’s never been able to hide anything from her, even as children. </p><p>So the Dark Lord Voldemort was back, and he was living(?) in Malfoy Manor. How he’s <i>living<i>, she’s not sure. How Draco’s coping, she’s almost certain he isn’t.</i></i></p><p>
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</p><p>Then Lucius Malfoy comes over to the Greengrass Manor, in the dead of the night, swirling black and silver cloak with his polished-silver walking stick in hand, and she knows that Draco isn’t the only one.</p><p> </p><p>Thirteen days of waiting, of thinking, and finally Daphne gets the first word of the answer to her questions, in the form of dramatic cape swirling and cane twirling, a shock of platinum blonde almost identical to Draco’s. She’s starting to believe wizards’ superstition for the number thirteen had valid bases in it.</p><p>“The Dark Lord is back,” she hears her father say, halfway down the dark, deserted corridor, creeping outside like she’s done every day for the past thirteen days. Daphne pauses. “Only a fool wouldn’t see that, Lucius, and I am no fool.”</p><p>Quietly, she tiptoes to the door of her father’s study, her eyes long since adjusted to the lack of light. He has never allowed her inside, and she has always respected that. She has always respected that ‘not being allowed in’ meant she wasn’t supposed to look inside, either, even without physically entering. But-- Lucius. The only living Lucius, Malfoy, current host of the Dark Lord Voldemort.</p><p>“Of course not, Atticus,” comes Lucius Malfoy’s voice, cold and haughty, and perhaps not as haughty as she had heard last time. He sounds… tired, almost. Tired and worried. Now <i>she’s<i> worried too, more for Draco than anything else. “You have never been a fool.”</i></i></p><p>
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</p><p>Daphne knows why he’s come. She thinks he had been the one who came in the First War, trying to get the Greengrasses on their side. And she thinks he might succeed too, this time. Her father had called him the <i>Dark Lord<i>, like he’d become one of <i>his<i>. </i></i></i></i></p><p>
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</p><p>She feels sick.</p><p>“You did, however, make a foolish choice.” There comes the voice Draco tries so hard to imitate. “When you decided not to pledge your allegiance to the Dark Lord all those years ago.”</p><p>Her father stays silent.</p><p>Well, if he wasn’t going to respect everything he’s ever taught her, about neutrality and pointless wars, pointless causes anymore, she damn well wasn’t going to respect anything else he’s taught her. Daphne draws her wand.</p><p>
  <i>“Lumevitrus,”<i>  she murmurs. The door shimmers for a moment, then turns clear for her to inspect. She grimaces at the grainy quality. </i></i>
</p><p>In her father’s study is a mahogany desk. Her father sits behind it, Lucius Malfoy sits before him. The candlelight illuminates almost nothing, like it is only for show. As if, on purpose, they have both shrouded their faces for a reason, both keeping their cards close to their chests, halfway in their hearts. If it had been her father who had lit the candles, there will be relief. If it had been Lucius Malfoy-- the symbolism of a Malfoy initiating the customs of the Greengrass family will not be lost on her. Although her father-- even if he had agreed to involve himself under the Dark Lord Voldemort’s name-- surely he wouldn’t stoop that low?</p><p>“Will you make the same choice again?”</p><p>She grits her teeth as her father says nothing, simply staring at the man before him. He has done that with her so many times when puzzling something out, when trying to see with which decision he would come out the winning side.</p><p>Lucius Malfoy stands. “You know why I have come, Atticus--”</p><p>“I don’t think even <i>you<i> know why you’ve come, Lucius,” her father finally says, chair scraping as loudly as it can over the carpet as he stands, a muffled sort of thudding. Daphne’s heart thuds along with the chair.  “You and your damning fear. We were friends once, weren’t we? Is that why you came? A friendly call, solace from your manor where he resides?”</i></i></p><p>
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</p><p>Malfoy pauses the beginnings of pacing, and slowly turns to her father. She is watching the two of them closely, now, and sees the smallest shift of something in his face. “Is that your answer, then?”</p><p>She shivers at the sudden cold.</p><p>Daphne’s father sighs, unaffected, and rubs his fingers against his wedding band. “Tell your Lord  I said no. That I am honoured, but no.”</p><p>He snuffs out the candle then in a swift motion, and with the candlelight, the tightness in her chest leaves. It had been her father who’d lit them, after all.</p><p>“If you need any help, Lucius…” Her father says, voice sombre. They are properly hidden in the shadows now, and yet she feels it is the most honest both men have been the entire night. “We were friends once.”</p><p>She almost squeaks as his silhouette approached the door, quickly releasing the charm and nonverbally casting the disillusionment charm on herself. Nowhere to hide, she quickly moves herself against the wall, just in time for her father to sweep outside. </p><p>“Show yourself out, Lucius.” Her father’s voice echoes down the corridor. “You’ve been here enough times to know how.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Harry Potter was tired. He had been cleaning his trunk in his bedroom for the best part of four hours, while staring out at the darkening street and had finally been able to get to the bottom of the sea of messiness that his trunk had become after five years. There were wrappers and papers from years tucked up in all sorts of corners, and all the way at the bottom, there was that mirror.</p><p>Or at least, what it used to be.</p><p>The broken shards of what was Sirius’ gift lay strewn at the very bottom of his trunk and as he picked up the largest shard, he had this overwhelming urge to throw it. His body wanted to throw it. To rid himself of the memory. But that little part of himself tells him to look into it, to see if Sirius’ is there. Just to hang on to that miniscule bit of hope that he can come back. But he knows he can’t.</p><p>He was tired of it all. Of people not taking his warnings seriously. Of nobody understanding himself and he was tired of being manipulated. Played by Dumbledore and Voldemort for their own personal gain. He had been used like some amateur or a pawn in a chess game that he did not know he was playing. But of course he had to play. He was meant to. He was the Chosen One, the Boy-Who-Lived.</p><p>Except he had never asked to be. Dumbledore had been distant to him to use him as a pawn to try to beat Voldemort at his own games. Mind games. Literally in this case. Snape’s Occlumency lessons had been next to useless and he had nothing to go on except the itching and the pain of his scar. But of course Dumbledore wouldn’t care. It all was part of his plan.</p><p>“To get Sirius <i>killed<i>” is what sprang to his mind with his intense hatred for the entirety of his previous school year. But he had to move on. Times had moved on. Voldemort didn’t care for Sirius’ death and had to be planning his next move already. God knows what he was up to.</i></i></p><p>
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</p><p>As he lay on the bed with one side of his face pressed up against the cold window-pane, he wondered about what all of his friends were up to. Hermione was probably reading up on this year’s topics and enjoying herself with her muggle parents having a holiday in god-knows-where.</p><p>Ron was probably recounting the tale of The Battle Of The Department Of Mysteries to his brothers, or anyone who would listen to it, without mentioning that he had been knocked out at the end and it had been just me who could do anything against the Death Eaters.</p><p>And him. The one who had sacrificed it all, sacrificed the closest thing he had to a father figure, was stuck in an abusive household with no information except muggle news. Why was he the one left out in the dark? Why had he been thrown away to some muggle household when he could be very well at The Burrow? Or Grimmauld Place? Hadn’t he showed that he was more capable than all of them? Hadn’t it been he who had gone into the Death Chamber and stayed standing long enough for backup to arrive?</p><p>And hadn’t he been the one who had lost the most?</p><p>He looked out at the roads outside in the moonlight and was to let it all out when he recognised a familiar owl, a snowy white one which seemed to shine in the darkness of the night. </p><p>However, unlike the many other times that Hedwig had returned to Number 4 Privet Drive, she returned this time, with a letter.</p>
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